The first encounter with the manatee

 Walking alone on a remote beach in southwest Florida, I was startled to hear splashes and a deep sigh coming from the

water just offshore.

As I squinted in the direction of the sounds, the rounded gray back of a sea creature rose amid a red froth, rolled

turbulently at the surface, then sank back into the Gulf. Moments later a broad nose emerged and exhaled in a great

snuffling breath. It was a manatee, and by the looks of the reddish-colored water and the way it was thrashing, it was

in trouble.

I had often watched manatees in these warm coastal waters, but I'd never seen one act like this before. Usually just

their big nostrils appeared for a gulp of air as they foraged on sea grasses or swam slowly to greener underwater

pastures. But I also knew how common it was for these lumbering giants to be gashed by boat propellers or entangled in

crab traps.


I wanted to help, but what could I do? There was no one else on the beach, and the nearest phone to call the Marine

Patrol was miles away.

Tossing my beach bag onto the sand, I began wading toward the animal, who continued to writhe as if in distress. I was

still only waist deep when I came close enough to make out the bristly whiskers on the manatee's muzzle as it thrust up

out of the sea. Then, to my surprise, a second muzzle, much smaller, poked up beside it.

I pushed on through the shoal water, but now the manatees were also moving toward me. Before I knew what was happening,

I was in chest-deep water encircled by not one or two, but at least three blimplike bodies. I felt elated and slightly

dizzy like the kid who is 'it' in a schoolyard game.

A bulbous snout emerged next to me. In the translucent water, I could clearly see the rest of the huge mammal, and

there, nestled close behind her, a smaller version of her massive body.

Then, with incredible gentleness for such an enormous creature, the larger manatee nudged the little one with her

paddle-shaped flipper and pushed it to the surface beside me. I wanted to reach out and touch the pudgy sea baby, but I

hesitated, not knowing the rules of this inter-species encounter.

As the two slipped back underwater, two other manatees moved in from behind and slid by, one on either side, rubbing

gently against my body as they swam past. They circled and repeated the action, this time followed by the mother and her

calf. Emboldened by their overtures, I let my hand graze the side of the small manatee, now clinging to the mother's

back, as they made their pass. Its skin felt rubbery and firm like an old fashioned hot water bottle.

The group completed several more circuits. Since they obviously enjoyed touching me, I began stroking each of them as

they sidled by. When one of them rolled over for a scratch, I knew I had made the right move.

Eventually my new friends made their way off towards deeper water. I stood anchored to the spot, not wishing to break

the spell, until finally the rising tide forced me back to shore.

I suppose I will never know exactly what took place that morning. I like to think that the manatees included me in their

celebration of a birth; that I was welcomed to meet the newest member of their tribe. But over time I have come to

cherish the experience without questions.

During that unexpected rendezvous, I felt more in tune with the rhythms of life on this vast planet than I ever have.

The memory has become a song I sing to myself when I have the blues, a dance I do to celebrate joy.

And each year, during the last week of May, I pack a lunch and head for that isolated stretch of beach for a quiet

little birthday picnic on the shore. After all, you never know who might show up for the party.